


Budapest Dance

by DistractedDream



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Black Widow - Freeform, Budapest, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Hawkeye - Freeform, Pre-Avengers (2012), Shameless Smut, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistractedDream/pseuds/DistractedDream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both remember Budapest differently. This is how Hawkeye remembers it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Budapest Dance

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on Twitter @DistracteDream and on Tumblr @DistractedDream. Please leave kudos or comments if you liked this! I appreciate every single one.

_And you wanted to dance so I asked you to dance but fear is in your soul. Some people’ll call it a one night stand but we can call it paradise._

They’d been partners for six months now. Her on the ground, him watching from his perch. Clint knew they were perfect that way, practically indestructible. But once, just for tonight, he ached to be down by her side.

Budapest was a beautiful city. The Gothic Revival architecture of the Parliament Building mixing with the modern life of its people called to Clint’s soul. He watched it from his perch, detached, able to scan the crowd, the details, without succumbing to the magic of the city. He especially appreciated having his choice of vantage point. The spires and domes provided excellent places for him to work. Even in the slight chill, he loved every minute spent among the birds.

Tonight though… tonight was a ball or state dinner or something that hadn’t held his interest long enough to remember. He had his target, he had his assignment, and he didn’t bother with the details. Except for Natasha. Her details he cared about. Her nuances he studied. It was some costumed shindig and he’d laughed at her mask in their hotel. It was some lacy number and he mocked that it didn’t exactly hide her identity. She’d rolled her eyes – as she always did – before ensconcing herself in the bathroom to prepare. He left before she was finished, knowing that as always he’d find her in the crowd.

Clint had found a comfortable vantage point with clear vision for him but hidden from anyone who might lift their eyes to study the ornate ceiling. He noted guests as they arrived and mentally dismissed them when they weren’t his target. Or Natasha. With no sign of her, he called her on the ear comm.

“Nat? You comin’ to the party or do I get to have all the fun?”

“Walking in now, Barton.”

He eyed the doorway. He knew she’d arrived as people stopped mid-conversation to glance at her. Finally she descended the steps into the lobby. Clint felt his breath leave him. Her long red hair was piled high on her head, a few tendrils framing her face and cascading down her bare back. Her dress was black lace over red satin, complimenting her creamy skin. The dress was strapless with an extremely low-back and he gulped when he saw it was low enough to see the small indentations on her back above her hips. The floor-length skirt was flowed in waves down her hips. Natasha always complained that tight dresses impeded her fighting. Yet as he sat practically drooling over her, Clint couldn’t help but wish he could see her legs.

“Having troubles, Agent Barton?” She raised her face, just as though she was casually scanning the architecture of the old building, and looked in his direction. The black lace of her dress matched her mask perfectly. Her eyes were a deep emerald green and he felt scorched under that gaze. She smiled softly, almost to herself, and returned her attention to the party.

She had to know he wanted her, he thought. They’d danced around it for months now. Sharing hotel rooms. Sharing small spaces during stakeouts. Sharing their lives, whatever lives master assassins could maintain. He shook his head, trying to clear it of his desire. Damn, she was distracting him and he knew that was unacceptable in their line of work.

“My only trouble,” he finally replied, “is that our target hasn’t arrived.”

She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing tray, sipping it. “Perhaps he won’t show.”

He shrugged. He knew she couldn’t see him, but they knew each other’s body language now. She’d know his response. “Then I guess you can enjoy your fancy dress ball thingy.”

She tasted the champagne again, another mischievous grin on her lips. “It’s a shame I don’t have anyone to fill my dance card. Or perhaps I do.” He watched as some overdressed philanthropist slunk over to Natasha. Clint felt like growling a warning to the schmuck.

“Just watch for our target,” Natasha reminded him over the comm. He did growl then.

He watched. She danced. He shivered. She drank. He frowned. She laughed. He felt like ripping the throats open of every single ponce that approached her. Clint ran his palm over his face and then raked his fingers through his hair a few times. He wasn’t a praying person, but he felt like praying for their target to show. Which he knew was beyond wrong – praying for someone to appear so he could kill them. That’s why he didn’t pray.

It had to be beyond late. He looked over his shoulder, seeing a faint pink-gold as a thin line on the horizon. “Nat, I think we were ditched. I’m packing it up.” He stretched his legs, searching for her in the thinning crowd. He found her still dancing, now to some new age shit he didn’t care to know. She technically had her hand in someone else’s, but the way she moved, he suspected she was really dancing alone. “Nat…”

She spun her partner around so she could face Clint’s perch. Her eyes lifted from under her mask, giving him just a hint of their green. She spun around again, moving her hips slowly, tossing her head back. “Dance with me,” she whispered. He groaned as her inebriated partner answered stupidly, trying to move his hands lower on her hips. She firmly placed them back, turning again to face Clint.

“Nat, hon…” His voice sounded like gravel, his legs locked where he stood. He knew this dance. Her Black Widow dance. The one she used to draw in their targets, tempting them, teasing them, promising them hours of delight, often delivering a quick death instead. Except the poor sucker she danced with now wasn’t their target. Clint was. He knew it as soon as she had flicked her eyes at him. He was lost, completely lost, with only her body guiding him.

She moved her hips in small circles. Her head rocked with the music. He watched her glide across the floor. “Don’t do this,” he begged her. “Don’t do this to me.” He found the strength to look away from her and finally to move to his gear. He packed with practiced efficiency, struggling every second to not turn around. He sighed heavily. “I’ll see you back at the room.”

“Clint-“ he heard her call over the comm as he ripped it out of his ear. The sun was beginning to peek over the skyline, but as he descended his perch to street level, he descended into the dark shadows of a city unwilling to let go of the night. He slung his duffel over his shoulder and walked across the city to their hotel. He debated stopping for coffee, but all he craved was a hot shower.

That’s not true, he admitted. He craved her. Natasha. His partner. His Natasha. It was dangerous, it was unwise, but he couldn’t help but think of her as belonging to him. Not that she belonged or would ever belong to anyone, but he wanted her to be his – and to be hers in return.

Dawn was chasing away the last shadows and the city was starting to stir when he finally reached the hotel. He kept his head down, cutting through the lobby and passing the elevators in favor of the stairs. They were on the tenth floor – a side effect of him used to being so high above the streets – and the bag was growing heavy in his hands as he swung open the door to their hallway. Double-checking for other guests, he walked to their door and unlocked it.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he scanned the room for her. Natasha hadn’t returned yet. He briefly worried about her and then worried more about the fool she’d been dancing with when he left. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he threw down the duffel.

“Stopped for breakfast.”

He sighed. Clint wasn’t sure if he was happy to have some time alone or if he was disappointed she wasn’t back yet. He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles tense. Shower, right. A steaming hot shower until he washed all the kinks out was what he needed. He stripped, dropping his clothes on the floor on the way to the bathroom. He turned the shower on as hot as he could get it, letting the steam build in the small room. He shaved quickly before hopping under the spray.

He hissed as the heat cascaded down his skin, the muscles of his back contracting to avoid the burn before relaxing as the pounding water massaged them. He allowed himself a few minutes under the water and then scrubbed the dust of his job off with the tiny bar of hotel soap. He washed his hair, scrapping his fingers through his hair repeatedly. He would never admit it, though he suspected it was somewhere in his file, but he was terrified of spiders. He’d made the mistake of choosing a perch once crawling with spiders – and their nests. He shuddered just remembering and scrubbed his hair again.

He stood under the shower, longer than it took to rinse his hair, the heat of the water turning his skin red, his muscles slowly unwinding themselves from the tense positions he’d held all night. He closed his eyes, letting the water run over his face. He saw Natasha in his mind. Her dress hugging her curves. Her mask half-hiding her face. Her curls brushing her skin. Her hips swaying. He groaned, leaning against the shower wall for support. He was going to drive himself crazy. Or worse, he was going to ruin their partnership. That was his real fear.

He craved the dance with her. He wanted to hold her, to be seduced by her, to give himself to the temptation. But he was afraid. He feared she wouldn’t want him. He feared she’d walk out. She’d walk away from him, from their life, their jobs and he… he’d be alone. Again. He shook his head, clearing the images of Natasha – his Natasha – from his mind. He was frustrated and laughed at himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten hard over his partner, but tonight was different. Tonight he had been her target.

He turned off the water and faced his reflection. He was scowling as he dried off, rubbing the towel roughly on his skin. He wrapped the towel around his waist and fixed his hair, still scowling. Oh he could feel himself working into a terrific brood but damnit why had she decided to try to seduce him? Why would she use her skills on him? Weren’t they partners? He padded over to the bed, sitting on the edge, still scowling.

The sun was completely up, the golden light filtering in past the curtains to leave yellow lines on the carpet. He heard her key in the door and didn’t move. It was the smell of coffee that got his attention and he turned to look at her. She’d taken off her shoes and her mask, but otherwise still looked as immaculate as she had on the dance floor. In one hand she held a utilitarian cup of coffee with her shoes hanging off one finger. In the other she held a frothy concoction that was as much sugar as caffeine. Her mask dangled delicately from that hand. He grunted as she held out the whipped cream covered drink, accepting it and catching the mask as it slipped. He gently ran his thumb over the lace. It was smoother than he expected. It felt like liquid and he realized how fragile it must be. He held it out to her and took a long draw on the straw of his drink.

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking the mask from him, brushing her fingers against his. She walked to the closet, putting her shoes back exactly. Her perfectionism amused him and he briefly plotted switching everything around on her just to mess with her. She disappeared behind the closet door and he heard the zipper of her dress followed by a rustle of fabric. When she emerged, she was wrapped in one of the hotel’s sterile looking white bathrobes. He thought it was far too big on her and frowned again at the reminder of her earlier game.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are you just going to glare at me all day?” She went to the mirror and began removing a multitude of pins that held her hair in place. She watched his reflection in the mirror, meeting his eyes.

“I’m not glaring. This is just my resting face. I’m resting.”

“Clint, how long have we been partners?”

“Six months, give, take.”

“I know your resting face. And that is your glaring face.” She ran her fingers through her curls, pulling out a few more stray pins. “What’s wrong?”

He ducked his head down. He couldn’t lie to her. Their first promise to each other had been honesty. It was the foundation of their partnership. They had to be straight with each other. He couldn’t meet her eyes because he knew she’d have to be honest with him too and he wasn’t sure he would survive the answer. “Why did you dance for me?”

“I thought you wanted it,” she answered bluntly. “Didn’t you?”

Clint was overjoyed his skin was still red from the hot water and the vicious towel scrubbing. Otherwise he’d have to die of shame at how hard he blushed. He stared at the carpet, absently wishing he’d picked up his clothes before she returned. He watched from the corner of his eye as she walked over to his position on the bed. She stopped directly in front of him. “Didn’t you want it?”

He sucked on the straw again. Anything to buy time. Anything to avoid that emerald stare he felt burning his head. He wished it was something harder. Scotch would have been good. Her clit would have been better. He hung his head. Pervert, he thought.

Her hand scooped under his chin, pulling his face up. “Look at me, Clint Barton.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “Didn’t you want it?” she breathed.

There was no denying her. He could have done it if he hadn’t looked in her eyes. He’d like to think so anyways. With her hand on his face and her eyes searching his, he had no choice but to confess everything. He smirked at the realization he’d fallen into the Black Widow’s web.

“Yes,” he told her, grabbing her wrist. “Fuck yes, I wanted it. I want it. You. I want you, Natasha.” He turned his face to kiss her palm. “But I don’t want the Widow and that’s who I saw on the dance floor tonight.” He met her eyes, just enough to catch her lashes flutter. “I want Natasha, my partner. Not the Black Widow.”

“Clint, I…” She stroked his cheek gently.

He dropped her wrist and put his hands on her hips, looking up at her face above his. “You had to know. How often have you caught me checking you out? How many times have you woken up with my arms wrapped around you? How could you not see?” The greatest marksman in the world, he who could see the smallest details at great distances, couldn’t fathom how she could have missed his signs of desire these last few months. Sometimes he felt like he’d all but taken out a billboard.

“I just thought…”

He shook his head. “Not the Widow.” He tapped her on the chest with one calloused finger. “You, Nat.” He sighed, dropping his head against her hand. “I want so you badly that I’m losing focus. I can’t go on with this. And so here I am, Nat. You’ve asked and now everything I have is out. And all I can think is how you’re going to walk out that door without me.”

Natasha dropped to her knees between his legs. “What? Why would you think that? Why would I leave?”

Her face was blurry in his sight. He blinked rapidly, fighting the tears. “If you didn’t want me. If I wasn’t worthy of you. If I ruined our partnership.” He sniffed.

“Oh Clint,” she whispered, rising on her knees. She held his face in her hands, kissing his forehead, his eyes, his nose, and finally his mouth. “I do want you. You are worthy. You aren’t going to ruin anything.” She kissed his mouth softly. “I’m not going to walk away from you,” she whispered against his lips.

He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her tightly to his chest. He shook at her words. He held her as she continued delivering soft pecks over his face and hair. He moaned and kissed her. He kissed her with all the passion he’d tried and failed to hide for months, all the dreams, the fantasies he’d had about her, all the fear and hope and resignation that came with the life of an assassin – and with loving an assassin.

Clint lifted her from the floor, turning to lay her down on the bed. His towel came unwrapped in the movement, but he’d almost cried in front of her. He figured if he had any dignity left, an exposed cock wasn’t going to destroy it. He kissed her gently, pulling at the belt of her robe. Her hands were in his hair, on his shoulders, running down his arms, over his chest, around his back. She shivered as he finally opened her robe.

He pulled back to look at her. He’d seen silhouettes and shadows. He’d felt her form against his in a half-awake state. Yet this was the first time he actually got to see her. His eyes traced over her pale skin, noticing a scar here, an old bruise there on her ribs, the indentation from her dress’ zipper. She was perfect to him. Soft skin over hard muscle. Marked with mementos of their trade. He ran his hand down her side, brushing her curves with feather light touches. He looked at her eyes and kissed her again.

“Nat…” He kissed her neck. “I want you.” He brushed a thumb lightly across her nipple, making her arch on the bed. “I want you, Natasha.” She shivered again as he licked behind her ear. “Oh, Nat.” He breathed her name against her ear, smiling as she moaned. She turned her head, kissing him, her lips locking on his, darting her tongue into his mouth, sucking on his when he tasted her. He pinched her nipple and she gasped, burying her fingers in his hair to pull his head down to her. He kissed, licked, sucked, and nipped a trail from her jawline down her delicate white throat across her collarbone over the swell of her breast, finding her nipple and flicking it with his tongue.

“Clint…” She gritted her teeth, her legs starting to scissor on the bed. He trapped one leg between his own and kept his attentions on her breasts. She rolled her hips, trying to get purchase, something that would give her friction. He chuckled and grazed his teeth over her nipple. He watched his hand slide down her stomach over her thigh, creeping back up her leg. He loved seeing the contrast in their skin. His tanned hand against the milky white of her hips. His roughness against her smoothness. He dug his fingers into her hips as she lifted off the bed. “Clint, please.”

He drew his fingertips from her hips to between her legs. “Yes, Natasha.” He tickled her clit lightly and grinned like a fool when she cursed in Russian. “Open your legs, babe.” He nudged her knees apart and settled himself between her thighs. He could feel her body tense under him. “Nat,” he murmured kissing her hip. “Nat, oh, Nat. You are beyond perfect.” He made quiet little noises against her skin until she relaxed. He nuzzled her, whispering praises into her body. He felt her tense again as he kissed her, but it was followed by immediate relaxation. He kissed her again, slowly, gently until he felt her thighs unwind from around his neck. He wedged his hands under her ass, tilting her hips to give him better access to her. He kissed her, licked her, nipped her, murmuring affections against her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, digging her heels into his shoulders. Her head thrashed on the bed and he wasn’t sure if she was cursing or praising him in her mother tongue but he knew he loved the sound of it.

He paused to lick two of his fingers. She stilled for a moment as his fingers pressed against her. He raised his eyes to find her staring at him. “Do you want me to stop?” She bit her lip and shook her head. He bent his head back to her, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he sucked on her clit. He slowly inserted his fingers, watching as she dropped her head back to the pillows, smiling as she said something in Russian, something that ended with his name. He hoped to hell it was good. He licked her as he pulled his fingers back out slowly using her own wetness to lubricate her and his hand. He slid his fingers back into her as she moaned, arching her back to bear her hips down against his mouth and hand. He built his rhythm, enjoying her body undulating against the bed, licking and sucking at her as his fingers pumped into her. He felt her thighs tighten on each side of his head and briefly what would happen if he passed out now if she thigh-choked him. He removed his fingers told hold her thighs down with both hands. Her whimper became a curse as he replaced his fingers with his tongue. Her hips bucked as she pulled his hair. He hummed against her and that was her undoing. She yelled his name, halfway jerking up on the bed and then collapsing back on the sheets, vibrating and muttering something in Russian.

He kissed his way back up her body, rewarded with tiny tremors each time his lips touched her skin. “What was that?” He kissed her mouth, knowing she’d taste herself on his tongue and almost coming unglued himself at the thought.  
She sighed, returning his kiss. “I don’t even know. It was just so…” She trembled in his arms.

He kissed her forehead, stroking her body. “Are you ready, darlin’?” His body felt like it was humming, like he’d wound his bow string too tightly and was just waiting for the painful snap back against his forearm. Natasha nodded, closing her eyes.

He paused. “Fuck.” Her eyes fluttered open. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He cursed and dropped his head, feeling completely defeated.

“What’s wrong? Clint?”

He couldn’t even look at her. He was an ass. He’d be the one to suffer the most, but he was still an ass. And worst yet, he felt like a stupid teenaged boy, screwing up his first chance. “I, uh, I don’t have a…” He was certain he was blushing now and hoped she wouldn’t comment.

“A…?” She stilled, her hands on his biceps. “A what? Oh! Oh. Right.” She wriggled from underneath him and hopped off the bed. He flopped on his back as she disappeared into the bathroom. He’d screwed up. His one chance and it was gone because he was an unprepared idiot. He covered his eyes with his arm, deciding now would be a good time to pray for his own death. He felt the bed shift as she climbed on, crawling up to sit on his thighs. He peeked from under his forearm when he heard the familiar crinkle of a foil packet.

“And do I want to know why you have condoms, Nat?”

She shook her head. “SHIELD sends Black Widow into the field prepared for all possible scenarios.”

“You mean…”

“I mean I had to check the date to make sure it was still good. That’s how long it’s been in my bags.” She took his cock in her hands and deftly rolled the condom down on him. “There we go.” She inched her hips up his body. “Are you ready, Clint dear?” She lifted her hips over his, lining them up.

“Fuck yes, Nat.” He held her hips as she slid down on him, pausing to let her body adjust, until he was completely inside of her. They both moaned at the sensation as she clenched around him. He closed his eyes, his hands resting on her hips, not guiding her, just holding on as she rode him. Slowly and then faster and then slowing down again. He bent his knees to give her more of a seat, finding he enjoyed the feel of her ass sliding against his thighs. He reached one hand between them, rubbing her clit with his thumb in small tight circles.

“Clint,” she moaned as she tensed before shuddering all over and falling forward onto his chest. He wrapped one arm around her back and the other under her ass and then rolled so she was beneath him.

Her breathing was ragged as he kissed her. He let her calm before slowly sliding himself out of her and then slamming back in. She dug her nails into his shoulders and he growled low in his throat at the feeling. He loved the thought of her marking him and wanted more. He wanted her to leave scratches and bites and bruises on his skin. Something he could look at to remind himself of this night and how he was hers. He bent his head, nuzzling against the underside of her breast before biting it and sucking hard. She dug her nails in even deeper in his skin. He marked her as she was marking him. He wanted to brand her body the way she’d branded his soul when she flicked her eyes at him from the dance floor. He lifted his head and found the delicate spot behind her ear. He sucked hard, loving how her body jerked against his. She pulled on his hair, pulling his face to hers for another kiss.

He pistoned in and out of her body. He stopped thinking. He would have sworn he heard a distant click as his brain shut off and his body took over. Harder and harder he slammed into her, moaning as her body met each thrust. He didn’t even realize he was babbling into her hair until everything felt too hot and too tight and he buried his face in her shoulder as she threw her head back and he felt everything explode and go blinding white on him.

Clint collapsed straight down on her. She was soft and he wanted to snuggle on her. He didn’t care about anything else except maybe sleep. He suddenly cared about sleep a lot. Finally a thwap on the back of his head got his attention. “You’re crushing me.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He rolled off her, trying to gather her against her body again.

“Eh, wait up there. Go get cleaned up first. Clean, then sleep.”

He muttered as he was kicked out of bed. “Clean, then snuggles, then sleep.”

When he came back to the bed, she was wearing one of his t-shirts and had laid out a pair of his boxers for him. He slipped them on before lying back down against her. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her back to his chest and buried his face in her hair like he’d always wanted.

“Am I yours?” she whispered as their room glowed gold in the bright morning light.

“Hmmm?” He nuzzled her shoulder.

“You called me ‘my Natasha’ as you came. Am I? Am I your Natasha?”

He rolled her over to face him. “I would love to have you as mine. If you’d accept me as yours.”

She sniffled, her tough Russian façade and decades of training cracking slightly. “You’ve been mine since you rescued me. My hero.” She kissed him. “My Clint.”

He kissed her passionately. “Yes, you are my Natasha. You have been since I first saw you. My angel. My Nat.” He kissed her again. “Now let’s sleep. I’m exhausted.”

Clint fell asleep, nestled against his Natasha. That’s what he would always remember about Budapest – his Natasha and their dance.

**Author's Note:**

> Opening from Duran Duran's "Save a Prayer".


End file.
